Salmagundi!
by Salmagundi
Summary: Salmagundi n "A mixture or assortment." A Collection of all of my random drabbles, LJ meme entries and assorted snippets of Hetalia writing. This Update: Spain/Austria for the Fanfic Prompts Meme
1. Jillian

**Jillian**

A/N: This was written for Amygirl's request for China/America in the random song-meme on my LJ. She picked #400 on my playlist, which was "Jillian" by Within Temptation - it was oddly fitting.

-

China knows this is a bad idea the very first time their eyes meet. He knows when he finds himself drawn into the stunning blue of America's gaze - so vital, so raw... so achingly new. The young nation drips with inexperience, a boy in a man's body - still trying to get steady on his long, wobbly limbs. China can see this. He turns America's heat and hunger aside, shaping them into something different.

He soon learns that America takes well to excess, though the boy never reaches the levels of hedonism to be found in Europe. His tastes are different - lavish. He shows China his creations - dens as grand as those back in Asia. Draped across a chair, the expensive silk sliding down one bare shoulder as smoke rolls from his lips, America is no less compelling than he was that first day. There is a demon trapped beneath his pale, perfect skin, it calls to China - a siren's song. Lips against the smooth expanse of America's throat, a fleeting touch, but beneath the sweet smoke and the rich fabric, there is still a boy in those eyes.

Mewling protest follows China as he pulls away. He has taught America well, but the wrong lesson, it seems...

It is not the last time America offers. It feels like that demon is always there, haunting China. He teaches America - trying to pull something constructive from the need he has created. America absorbs his lessons so quickly, changes them around to suit his needs. What he shows China upon his return is not what China has taught him.

America is nothing like the others China has mentored. His willful behaviour and stubbornness are failings that can be assets if bent to the right purpose. China pushes and finds that America balks at being treated in such a manner. Even when China is delicate about it, the reaction remains, instilled too deep for China to move. England has given America this core of hurt, and the boy guards it jealously, unwilling to relinquish it. It is not the first time that China has cause to be bitter toward England - as England has been, and continues to be a source of strife for China's people - but it is the first time that China is aware of how badly England has ruined this boy...

Even a hard stone will crumble if the water wears it down enough. The haunted look in America's eyes as San Francisco burns will stay with China forever. It is the first time China yields to America's needs - and to his own. In the midst of silk, and sweat, and the sweetness of bare skin beneath his tongue, China already knows this is folly, at best. America's legs wrap around China's middle, drawing him in. Before he can think better of it, he is held to America, in America.

It's afterward, with America crooning, spooned up against his side in a nakedness that is unashamed without being vulgar, that China is aware of how badly he has ruined this boy.

It's an addiction. For himself as well as for America. America is free with his money - free in borrowing money. He binds himself to China with his debt and his body and that brilliant smile and China does not care that this is madness. It's all consuming.

He chooses not to think about the future they weave into place. America settles after the depression, after the wars, their relationship eases into something a bit less heated, a bit more relaxed. The nebulousness China saw in the beginning has coalesced into something solid. America has built himself up, layer upon layer. He doesn't seem aware that he doesn't need China anymore.

But he will be. China knows. America will realize this eventually.

China carves America's name somewhere small and hidden away - preemptive. America is not the first - not by a long shot - and China senses that he will not be the last either. China has already seen the rise and fall of many nations stronger than America is now. Those nations are gone, and China is still here. It's a cold truth.

He buries his face against America's hair, breathing in his scent. If he moves his hand, he can feel the thudding of America's heartbeat beneath his fingers. He whispers words against that bare skin and feels America stiffen - he draws back, uncertain, surprised to see such an old look in America's eyes, so weathered despite being so young still.

"Don't do that." America whispers to him, trembling. "Don't love me. You're gonna live fucking _forever_, aren't you? I don't want you to love me if it's not forever. God, I'm a selfish bastard..." America turns his head to look away and China's fingers cup the side of his face, preventing the move.

Whatever America thinks, China knows he is fully capable of loving forever. He still loves the others, long gone. It's muted now, but still there, burned deep beneath his skin. America is not special in this regard... and still he is. He is still immediate and new and in China's arms right now. "I do love you, aru." He says and he doesn't have to worry that America scans his face for honesty because he's not lying.

"Do what you want then..." That note is back beneath America's voice, the one he'd thought was finally gone - the vestiges of England. "It's not like I can stop you." He curls against China, but he's already distant. America is somewhere in the future, a time when he is gone and China is still there. China will always be there. Some part of him is touched that America hurts to leave him - the rest of him knows that this means America is already leaving him.

_I will love forever. And you will not. How long will it be, before you can't take it anymore? Are you already thinking of that future - and who you will love, if not me?_

China's arms drape loosely around America's middle, drawing them together. He buries his face against the back of America's neck and he begins to count the days.

-

_I've been living for so long,  
many seasons have passed me by.  
I've seen kingdoms through ages  
rise and fall, I've seen it all._

_I've seen the horror, I've seen the wonders_  
_happening just in front of my eyes._  
_Will I ever, will I never free myself by making it right?_

_Jillian our dream ended long ago._  
_All our stories and all our glory I held so dear._  
_We won't be together_  
_for ever and ever, no more tears._  
_I'll always be here until the end._  
_Jillian, no more tears_  
_Jillian, no more tears_

_I'd give my heart, I'd give my soul.  
I'd turn it back, it's my fault.  
Your destiny is forlorn,  
have to live till it's undone.  
I'd give my heart, I'd give my soul.  
I'd turn it back and then at last I'll be on my way_


	2. Held

**Held**

-o-

**Warnings:** Human AU, Sex, incest, zombie apocolypse.

**Notes:** Written for Ahmerst in the Random Song Meme

-o-

His eyes widen, his brother's laugh echoing in the air. The world is moving in slow motion around him and he struggles forward a couple of lurching steps before the metal gate clicks into place. Fingers twine through the diamond-shaped links and he's yelling, yelling, but there are no words. Nothing comes out of his throat but the rawness, turning Alfred's name to a garbled cry. The damp shirt clings to Alfred's back, lining the muscles there, the angle of his shoulder blades, the curve of his spine -

_so familiar, his hands tracing along that tender skin and feeling the slight rise of each vertebrae beneath the pads of his fingers. The catch in Alfred's breath. The whisper of fabric as they shift - together... so wrong, so right... waited so long for this..._

- the softness is gone now, their weeks of running have molded the lines of his body into something more angular and sleek. He can see the slight jut of Alfred's hip bones where the jeans have dragged low, the smooth metal of the buckle askew and resting just against a patch of bare skin where the dark bruises have turned from black to a slight green. The guns dangle from his fingers.

Matt doesn't have to see Alfred's face to know his expression, that wild grin, the fey flash of his eyes. The ground feels as though it's vibrating and Matt can finally see them. A distant line that begins to break as they reach the ring of cars, surging, stumbling over this pitiful defense. And Alfred does not run. He doesn't.

The one time he should run and still he stands, a breeze ruffling the strands of his hair. Almost serene, despite the carnage and the bloodstains on his shirt. So unlike his brother. So much like him. Matthew's mind reels at the dichotomy.

"Stand back."

He doesn't hear it so much as feel the words, jolting through him. Alfred's head is turned just enough that he can see the line of his face, the set of his jaw. Alfred is smiling.

_hesitance in his brother's eyes, laid down on his back with the waistband of his pyjama pants tugged low, just enough. He cups the rise there, feels Alfred shift, feels him breathe, the shaky intake of air, touching what he should not. But it is. It's his. How could his brother ever belong to anyone else? His name, just a breath, and then the fabric is gone, down around those smooth thighs_

_"should I put it in my mouth?" he grins at the sight of his brash brother, turned red in the cheeks at that question, swallowing. Nodding. He bends down, flicks, teases. Tastes._

A click that he shouldn't be able to hear over the din, loaded, cocked. More than a fence separates them now. Or it always has and Matt has never seen - never wanted to see. He swallows but it cannot pass the lump in his throat as he takes a step back, his hands falling away from the metal, a heat in his eyes, a coldness in the rest of him.

Alfred raises the gun, slow, deliberate. His aim has improved, but that doesn't matter. It would be harder for him to miss. Finger on the trigger

"Don't worry, Mattie." He can't hear the words, but he sees the form of them on Alfred's lips. He knows what will come next and he's glad he can't really hear it. It's bad enough to know -

_heat. Slick heat squeezing around his finger and he hisses, hushes, murmurs silent nothings as Alfred's head tips back enough to show the line of his throat, glistening with sweat, the bob of his adam's apple. He's tight... so tight...__**will**__ see this. "Relax for me." Soothing now, he doesn't want to hurt Alfred. "You can do it." He can feel his brother trying as his finger creeps in deeper, but the tightness of his muscles refuses to relent. "Alfred-" he says, in that tone just for them, and he feels the attention riveted. "You're __**mine**__." his voice has steel beneath it and his brother shakes under his touch. "Let me in. You can't deny me what's mine."_

_they've never done this before_

_"relax..." he can barely hear himself._

_"I can't..." almost a whimper and he'd feel bad, bad for bringing those creases to the edge of his brother's lips, except that he needs more._

_"you can." their eyes meet and there is the shimmer of wetness on Alfred's cheeks. His brash, outgoing brother... but no one else has seen this,_

_breath coming out in a tremulous shiver and then he feels it, feels Alfred give to him - himself to Alfred - and his finger slides in to nestle in that warmth up to the knuckle..._

"I'll protect you." I'll protect you because you're mine, too.

God, Alfred...

The air is filled with thunder.

_"trembling, the patter of rain against the window as they lean into each other, breathe. So close. Lips almost brushing. He can feel Alfred's breath, parts his lips, almost touching, and he can breathe Alfred's air, catch it. Swallow it. His. He shifts and feels the slickness of his head bumping against that tight bud, fingertips trace the inside of one thigh, nudging._

_"spread a little more..."_

_Alfred leans up and silences him, tongues brushing, his hips stutter forward, resistance. And then he swallows his brother's moan as they slide, as he slides. Moving deep. Coming home._

Blur. It's all a blur. Alfred empties his clips, loads, empties. And then they're gone - no more bullets, and Alfred is pulling that ridiculous baseball bat out and the first splatters reach Matt as his brother splits one of the zombies. Blood. Other things he doesn't want to think about. Alfred's laugh rising above the screams, the sickening crack.

It's endless. It's impossible to be endless, but it is.

And then it ends.

_fingers clutching in the fabric of Alfred's shirt, holding to him, face buried against his brother's neck as his hips move in short bursts, as far as they can go with Alfred's legs wrapped so tightly around him. Warmth seeping into his nightshirt, his brother's moan, unmuffled, undrowned by the storm. The world descends into white._

Turning to look at him, there are no more zombies. None. Alfred is splattered, he's panting. He's still grinning like a madman. Blood plasters strands of his hair to his forehead. His fingers fumble against the lock, the key slippery. And then it comes loose and the gate is nothing. Matt buries his hands in the stickiness of Alfred's hair and his tongue is in Alfred's mouth. He tastes like the twinkies they found, sticky-sweet, enough to gag, but the best taste in the world. He could get to love twinkies, he thinks. He could love anything if it tastes of Alfred.

Alfred's fingers are brushing against his sides, short flutters, strange. He pulls back and they both gasp for the air they didn't need. Matt traces the curve of his brother's jaw, feels the tightness there, the set of his teeth and he **knows.**

_a voice, filling the stillness between them, taking it, shattering it. A hand on his shoulder, digging into the tender skin, pulling him out and away. It feels like breaking. The pain of his hip hitting the floor is nothing. His father's fist catching his cheek is nothing. The shattered look on Alfred's face is the only thing he can see. Alfred's voice pitching high and agonized is the only thing he can hear._

_and then there's only emptiness. A bus to take him across the country. The lingering touch of their fingers is the only thing they're allowed under Arthur's forbidding gaze._

_but I'll find you. A whisper he doesn't hear, but he knows is there._

_I'll find you and we'll be together. I promise..._

His fingers trace the ragged edge of a bite, feels the near-imperceptible flinch beneath his touch, and he swallows back the screams. "It'll be okay," He mouths, and he knows that he's lying.

_and despite their father's glare, they hug, they cling for those few precious moments..._

And they hold on.

-o-

Notes: Believe it or not, this was written for the Random Song Meme to the silly song "RE: Your Brains" by Jonathan Coulton.


	3. Notes

_**~Notes~**_

_**.**_

Written for a fic meme prompt: Spain/Austria, violin

.

There's an odd calm to watching him play. He sits there, eyes half-lidded. The sunlight slants through in thin slits and gives the entire room a faint warm cast - touching Austria's dark hair with gold. Spain is sure that the other nation doesn't notice this, is faintly convinced that Austria doesn't even realise that he's even in the same room. It doesn't matter.

Austria's stance is as proud as always, upright. Dignified. His fingers move across the strings with a skill that few can match. And yet there is the faint motion, even so, more evident in the dance of his shadow across the ground. Austria moves with the music - or perhaps he is the music. Spain has never been entirely certain of which is true. He shifts in his band of sunlight and watches the dust motes drift, flickering around Austria's silhouetted form in hundreds of glowing pinpricks.

Spain doesn't move until the music stops, until it fades from the air into a silence that feels somehow... empty. Austria's head turns at last, their eyes meeting. Spain can see the tiny flick of Austria's tongue across his lips and the way it makes his now-dampened skin gleam in the filtered sunlight.

"You didn't interrupt me." Is he surprised?

"I wanted to listen." And watch - though he would never say that aloud, for Austria's sake and for his own. There is so much in those four words: everything that he cannot say, everything that he will not say. To tell Austria that his music is beautiful would simplify things too much... the words so stark and vulgar to describe something so deep.

Something flashes in Austria's eyes and Spain isn't sure if hopeful is what he should be feeling. Their relationship is complicated - has always been complicated. So simple a thing, a marriage of convenience, and yet... so strange, how he misses those days.

'We weren't even close. Not as close as we ought to have been. But I feel sometimes that I know you better than anyone.'

That honour would go to Hungary, of that he has no doubt, but if he doesn't ask then he can still assume otherwise. He doesn't need the truth.

Austria is regarding him with that level stare, his fingers playing across the smooth wood in such slight motions that they are almost inperceptible, but Spain can see them. Austria is going to kick him out, he thinks, and is surprised when the words are not what he expects. "If you remain quiet, you can stay."

Spain feels his heart surge in his chest, an odd patter, and he sits up. He feels his back straightening, sliding into the old, familiar posture that Austria had always tried to push on him. Funny how some things never quite go away...

It doesn't matter, as the music begins again, soft strains and the long line of Austria's body framed by the sunlight.

Dust motes dance on the faint breeze, as though the music itself moves them.

And if it's not what Spain is hoping for, it's still far more than he expects.

_A/N: I haven't forgotten my other fics. I'm working on updates but it's going somewhat slowly. I'd say Bealtaine's next chapter is 3/4 done as of now._


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